


In Search of Orange Juice

by lha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wakes up to find Mycroft missing from their marital bed.  In and of it's self this is not particularly unusual but what he finds when he goes downstairs is certainly a cause for concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Search of Orange Juice

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by but not really fufilling this prompt -  
> Newly diagnosed Mycroft thinks he can control his diabetes by sheer force of will. He's always working long hours, his meetings always over run and they're already too long to begin with, he has to eat the same dishes as his guests for sake of politeness and there's never a routine for meals. He never has a minute unaccounted for where he can take his insulin. He just doesn't have time for it at all. 
> 
> And he just ends up dangerously sick, with Lestrade in the dark about it all.
> 
> Bonus for worried!Lestrade also being a bit pissed at Mycroft for his stupid and dangerous actions. (

Gregory woke abruptly for no apparent reason. He let his head fall to the left, still feeling languid after the previous night’s particularly energetic round of ‘welcome home after almost a month in who knows where’ sex, but Mycroft was no longer lying next to him. This in itself was not particularly unusual, Lord knew that the civil servant rarely slept well and he seemed to have been getting up in the middle of the night increasingly regularly over the last few months, but Mycroft has been exhausted after this last trip and Greg had hoped his partner would sleep through at least this once. Still though, he was fairly certain that that wasn’t why he had woken in the small hours of the morning and as if on queue there was an almighty crash from downstairs and he went from pleasantly relaxed to heightened awareness in an instant. 

He was on his feet and creeping towards the bedroom door almost instantly, his mind processing the fact that either a particularly inept burglar had broken into the ridiculously well protected building or Sherlock had smuggled in a herd of goats just to irritate his brother. It said quite a lot about Greg’s life that he thought the second option was the more likely. None the less, he descended the stairs quietly, sticking close to the wall and listening keenly. There were voices, no just one voice muttering away, interspersed with what sounded like the contents of drawers being turned out onto the floor from a great height. Just as he was eyeing the umbrella stand for a likely weapon however, the voice rose enough for him to realise that it was in fact Mycroft’s.

“Where is it?” he seemed to demand and this was followed by a particularly loud clatter. 

“Mycroft?” Greg asked easing into the doorway and taking in the scene before him. The living room was in utter chaos; there were books all over the floor, throws tossed aside, cupboard doors open and their contents pulled out and discarded where they fell. In the midst of it all stood Mycroft, sheet white and trembling, his eyes darting around the room as he continued to talk to himself as though he hadn’t heard Greg’s arrival. 

“Where is it? Why can’t I find it?” Mycroft asked the air, seeming increasingly agitated.

“Mycroft?” he asked again, stepping into the room, “Have you been drinking love?” There was certainly something the matter, this behaviour was entirely out of character for the other man who couldn’t put down a china cup without a coaster. 

“Gregory?” the civil servant asked, looking at him suddenly, “Why are you here? Have you moved it?”

“Are you ok?” Gregory asked, moving closer to the other man, trying to hold his gaze.

“You never put things back where they’ve come from.” He was mumbling again, looking away as though still searching for this elusive item. 

“Mycroft, I need you to look at me,” he said more forcefully, reaching out and taking hold of the other mans forearms, the cotton of his old fashioned pyjamas drenched beneath his hands. “Have you been drinking? Have you taken something?” he asked, realising that this behaviour was not what he recognised from the rare occasions when Mycroft had overindulged. 

“Yes!” Mycroft declared, seeming pleased with the revelation. “I did take something.” His face fell though, seeing that Gregory was not reflecting this sudden joy. “I was supposed to take them, the doctor said so.”

“The doctor gave you them?” he asked and Mycroft nodded.

“I took them, but then I got distracted…” the taller man leaned towards him now smiling lecherously and walking his fingers clumsily up Greg’s chest before almost collapsing into him. Gregory stroked his partner’s back, his thoughts running at a hundred miles an hour. He wasn’t aware of any medication Mycroft took regularly or that he’d been to the doctors recently, he did know someone who would know though. “I can’t find it Gregory,” the other man mumbled into his chest, “I should find it but it’s not where I left it and all I want to do is sleep…” he was obviously distressed and Greg spoke while continuing to look around the room looking for the cordless phone that was missing from the cradle. 

“What is it you’re looking for?” 

“The orange juice. But you’ve moved it!” he snapped, his words slightly slurred. 

“Hey, love, stay with me,” Greg encouraged, jostling him slightly. “Why don’t we try the kitchen, I think I might have put the juice in the fridge.” 

He managed to walk them both through to the kitchen, snagging the phone from the bureaux on the way. Heading towards the breakfast bar, he sat Mycroft down on one of the stools while he fumbled with the handset. With Mycroft seemingly latched on to his right arm, it took him a couple of attempts to hit the speed dial but Anthea picked up on the second ring;

“Something’s wrong with Mycroft,” he said without pre-amble, “I’ve just found him ransacking the living room in search of orange juice, looking like death warmed over and behaving like a bear with a sore head.”

“Did he eat last night?” she asked.

“No… we got distracted… Wait, what’s going on? Do you think he’s been poisoned? Should I call an ambulance?”

“Mr Holmes was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes while we were away. Due to the unpredictable nature of his schedule he was prescribed some medication to take before eating to assist in managing his blood glucose levels. He took the medication shortly before he arrived back in London last night as he anticipated eating with you. If you didn’t have dinner it’s likely that he will have become hypoglycaemic. You’ll need to test his blood glucose, there’s a kit in his briefcase.”

“Right, OK,” Greg said, propping Mycroft up as he began to tilt, “there is going to be discussion about this later. Lots of discussion. But first we’re going to have to fix this - don’t go anywhere.” Now that he had a good idea what was wrong the panic was receding into concern but there was part of him furious. They hadn’t been able to speak regularly while his husband was away but they had spoken and he would have liked to think that something like this would have been worth mentioning. He put the phone down on the counter before making sure that Mycroft wasn’t about to fall of the seat. “Mycroft,” he said clearly attempting to get the other man’s attention, pulling his own arm free and taking a firm hold of the other man’s upper arms, “we’re going to get you feeling better but first I‘m going to need to test your blood glucose.”

“Sorry,”

“What?” Greg asked, surprised by his partner’s quiet seriousness. 

“I’m sorry… You’re angry…”

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll talk later,” he said, leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s brow, “I love you. Be right back.” 

Not for the first time, Gregory was particularly grateful for Mycroft’s anal retentiveness as it made it incredibly easy to spot the new addition in his briefcase. He was certain that the sleek black leather case was not a standard issue but it did fit in with the rest of the elder Holmes belongings.

“Gregory…” The quiet call had him hurrying back to the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, crossing to where the other man was now slouched over the breakfast counter, “I’m right here.” Reaching out, he could feel the other man trembling beneath his hands and he picked the phone back up. “I’ve got the kit,” he said, jamming the handset between his ear and his shoulder while he unfastened the case. 

“You’ll need to prick his finger,” Anthea said, “there should be…”

“Found them,” Greg interrupted picking up a little orange clip thing like he’d come across at the blood donor centre. “Alright Mycroft, I need a finger,” he said reaching for the other man’s hand. Firing the orange device into his partner’s finger, he squeezed it like the nurses had done, helping the blood gather at the site of the puncture wound. 

“Smear some blood on one of the strips, then insert it facing upwards into the reader.”

“Ok,” he said, fiddling with the frustratingly small card and the even smaller slot. “Right, it’s thinking. Mycroft are you still with me?” he asked, turning back to the civil servant. 

“Everything’s wrong…” he mumbled, “Why are you here Gregory? Why am I here? Why does everything feel strange?”

“Because we didn’t have dinner last night.”

“Oh,” he looked puzzled for a moment before he frowned. “You knew I was coming back, couldn’t you have at least made sure we had orange juice? I really want some orange juice.” During the space of the space of this outburst, Mycroft went from imperious bureaucrat to sick child. 

“We’ll get you some in just a minute, how long is this supposed to take?” he asked down the phone.

“It’ll beep to let you know the reading. Anything less than 40mmol is considered hypoglycaemic. I have a car in place to take you to the clinic if the reading is below 18mmol.”

“What happens at 18?” he asked, rubbing Mycroft’s arm absently. 

“At 15mmol there is a danger of seizure and coma. It would be better to seek medical intervention before we reach that stage.”

“Excellent.” Anything else he might have said was postponed when the little machine beeped. “22,” Gregory sighed. 

“Right, you need to get him to drink about 100mls of fresh juice.”

“Like orange juice?” Greg asked, rolling his eyes. Trust Mycroft to know what he was doing even when he was half out of his mind.

“That would be appropriate. His blood glucose level should rise after about 15 minutes but he’ll need to eat some slow releasing carbohydrates after that.”

“Ok.”

“I can be with you in less than twenty minutes if you’d like me to be.” 

“No. I… I think we’ll be fine.”

“I’ll leave the car outside just in case.”

“Thank you Anthea, we’ll talk about all this tomorrow.”

Greg put the phone down and rested the flats of his hands on the work surface, bowing his head and closing his eyes for just long enough to pull his thoughts together. First things first, orange juice. The carton was exactly where it should have been, he knew (from Mycroft’s mild obsession with portion control) that the small breakfast glasses held about 125ml so he poured slightly less than full glass.

“Mycroft? I’ve got your orange juice.”

“Juice?” he said distractedly.

“Yeah, come on you wanted orange juice.”

“No thank you,” 

“Well I need you to drink this.” The other man frowned.

“Is this what you were talking to my Anthea about? Why you‘ve got me up in the middle of the night? Orange Juice?“

“I called Anthea because you aren‘t very well Mycroft, and I was worried. Then we tested your blood glucose, remember? It’s too low and that’s why you need to drink the juice.”

“I have diabetes,” the younger man said, a sort of innocent comprehension seeming to dawn, “but…” he seemed to be struggling valiantly to form the rest of the thought but it wasn’t happening. “I feel strange.”

“I know you do love, that’s why you have to drink the juice. It’ll help,” he added holding out the glass again. Mycroft reached to take it but his hand was shaking too much for his grip to be reliable. “Here, let me help you, that’s it.” 

Five minutes later and the difference was noticeable, Mycroft’s colour had improved, he no longer felt clammy to the touch and he seemed to be able to follow a train of thought to it’s conclusion.

“How are you feeling?” Greg asked, not moving from where he had ended up standing next to the seat on which Mycroft was perched, rubbing gentle circles on his back.

“Better. Shaky still, but better,” he sighed, shifting his head against Greg’s shoulder. 

“Do you want to move to the settee?”

“Hmmm, I think I’ve lost the feeling in my behind.”

“Time for drastic measures then!” Greg said lightly, shifting and helping the other man stand. 

“I really am going to fire Anthea this time,” Mycroft mumbled once he was settled on the couch. They had only travelled from one end of the room to the other, where there was a casual seating area, but he was obviously still not right. 

“And this is her fault, how exactly?”

“She was the one who forced me to see a doctor and I didn’t feel ill prior to that.”

“I’m not entirely sure she can be blamed for the fact that we neglected to have dinner last night and I’m actually kind of glad she got you to see someone.” Greg was trying to sound casual but a pang of guilt stabbed at him to know that his assistant had noticed something he, his husband, had not.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said with a yawn, “M’tired.”

“I’m not surprised. Another five minutes and I’ll test your glucose level again.”

“Thank you for being so accommodating, I never intended for you to find out like this Gregory.”

“Don’t think we won’t be discussing this tomorrow,” Gregory replied, “but being ‘accommodating’ as you put it is part of the loving you deal.”

“For which I am eternally grateful. If my reading is back within normal levels I should probably eat something with a slower release carbohydrate.”

“How does a sandwich sound? And then bed I think.” Greg was exhausted now that the adrenalin was beginning to fade but be strongly suspected sleep would not come easily. 

It took monumental effort from them both not to fall asleep on the settee and Mycroft suggested more than once that they move to a bungalow before they’d made it to the top of the stairs.

“You would hate living in bungalow,” Gregory pointed out.

“I would not.”

“You would. You are not a bungalow sort of a person.”

“Hmph.” Was the only response he received as Mycroft sat down on the edge of his bed.

“How about fresh pyjamas?” Greg suggested, already opening Mycroft’s chest of drawers but not receiving any response at all this time, he turned around. A gentle smile tugged at his lips at the sight of Mycroft whose body had obviously reached exhaustion point. He had fallen onto his side, his head barely on the pillow and the covers still displaced at the foot of the bed and quite obviously fast asleep. Closing the drawer, Greg walked over to the bed, reached down to rearrange the covers and lent over to kiss his husband’s forehead. No doubt the other man would be put out in the morning and complain about how unpleasant sleeping in damp pyjamas was but Greg wasn’t about to wake him up now. While he was on that train of thought however, he picked up Mycroft’s phone and turned the alarm, currently set to go off at 5am which was now barely two hours away, off. There was a good chance that he would be grumpy about that too but it was a risk Greg was willing to take and he would email Anthea before he turned in to ask her to cancel his schedule that way he could be sure to get the time for a proper conversation about what had happened as well.

Rounding the bed, Greg picked his tablet up from his bedside cabinet. Usually he was the one who enforced the no computers in the bedroom rule, but while Mycroft had been away he’d let it slide, something that his husband had pointed out with a raised eyebrow when he’d spotted it the previous evening. Settling back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him he went to compose a mail to Mycroft's PA only to discover that she had gotten there first.

\- I've cleared Mr Holmes’ schedule for tomorrow and rearranged all his meetings for later in the week with the exception of his 16.30 appointment with his own doctor. In the meantime I thought you might like some reading materials.  
A - 

Attached were several files and Greg couldn't help but smile. It had take a while but the two of them now had a fairly good relationship and although her ability to stonewall him still drove him to distraction occasionally, he'd learnt that she cared deeply for Mycroft and that was what really counted.

Ever since Anthea had told him of Mycroft’s diagnoses, the question of how he could have missed something as serious as this had been running on a loop through the back of his mind. He knew he wasn’t completely un-observant and though there were times when they saw less of each other than they might have liked, before his trip away Mycroft hadn’t been away longer than a few days in months. By the time he’d finished reading however, he felt he had a better understanding of what it was that had been going on. Type 2 diabetes often came on slowly, the symptoms not nearly as obvious as those of Type 1. The copious amounts of Strathmore water that his husband had been drinking for the last few months, something that Greg had put down to the latest diet he was on, had in fact been a symptom, as had the weight loss, which he’d also put down to the diet. He also suspected that one of the things that had been getting the other man out of bed in the middle of the night had been the need to pee but he wasn’t going to push the matter as he suspected this would be the kind of slightly ridiculous thing Mycroft would feel awkward about. Something else he was confident of was that his husband would fixate on was the fact that his sweet tooth and his previous girth made him a prime candidate for the disease.

While he had been reading, Greg’s hand had drifted down to toy with one of Mycroft’s ‘recalcitrant’ curls and as his gaze slid from the screen to the tousled head on the pillow next to him the policeman felt yet another wave of concern for the man next to him. It seemed unfair enough that his husband was going to have to deal with this added complication to his already over-complicated life without it proving another opportunity for self-flagellation. But he was determined that he would do everything he could to make sure that Mycroft couldn’t fixate and that they managed his condition the best as they possibly could. Greg had established what the risks were to having an elevated blood glucose level for an extended period of time and the alternative was not acceptable 0 they would make this work. The first line treatment for Type 2 diabetes was diet, weight loss and exercise but given that Mycroft was obsessive about what he ate now and was skinnier than Greg thought strictly necessary, the doctor had obviously deemed that drug intervention was necessary. It seemed fair enough, but Greg was certain that he’d feel better when they’d spoken to Mycroft’s own GP and once he’d had the chance to discuss this all over a pint with John Watson.

Thinking of John reminded him that he was expecting a call from Sherlock about a case which in turn, seemed to remind him just how exhausted he was. Rubbing his eyes, he decided it was time to call it a night or perhaps more aptly, a morning. He turned off his bedside light and put his tablet away before sliding under the covers and rolling so that he was spooned up behind the other man.

“Sorry… love you…” a muffled, sleepy voice said, just loud enough to be heard.

“I love you too,” he replied, wrapping his arms around his husband. “Sleep.”

“Hmmmm…” came the indistinct reply, and Greg smiled into the other man’s shoulder. They would be fine, there was really no other option.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed - I'd love to hear either way!


End file.
